


Forty-Nine Things That Probably Didn't Happen to the UNCLE and One That Probably Did

by Kleenexwoman



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Multiple Alternate Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2382074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya and Napoleon were never pirates or cowboys or women, nobody was ever any kind of animal or robot or talking Girl Scout Cookie, and nobody ever played Dungeons and Dragons or guitar in a rock band. But they might have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forty-Nine Things That Probably Didn't Happen to the UNCLE and One That Probably Did

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has been wonderfully illustrated by loxleyprince. If you wish to admire the pictures without hindrance of text, check them out here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2359238 and give her mad props. 
> 
> Thanks to Elmey, Eilidh, and Akane for organizing this!

**1\. Universe Prime**  
They met, ultimately, by chance—a shared assignment, a chat over sandwiches, a sense of camaraderie that had the spark of something more. Some friendships work out, some don't. Illya was lonely, Napoleon curious; Napoleon made it his mission to drag Illya along on assignments and Illya simply acquiesced, or perhaps Illya made it a point to tag along and Napoleon had no objection. It became a matter of habit to include each other, and before long it was the only arrangement either of them bothered with.  
Years later, their friendship will make history. They are symbols; they are a living embodiment of international cooperation, of an uneasy truce that refused to destroy the world. Their partnership is believed to be deliberate, a result of avuncular meddling by Mr. Waverly, an agreement between both nations to create a team that each could hang onto, even a clever metaphor by some propagandist weary of warmongering and eager for peace.  
They accept medals, recognition. There are commemorative articles and a documentary. There is a biopic that wins an Oscar for its set design. They are very, very important.  
In private, they are still nothing other than themselves, nothing more than each others' friend.

 **2\. Mirror Universe**  
When he joins UNCLE, Illya feels like he's been given a glimpse behind the curtain of a puppet show. Serious men in dark suits control the world, everyone knows that—now he's one of the ones watching instead of being watched. He's given a gun, something he's never touched before. It feels like power, like death.  
He's assigned a mentor. Napoleon is always smiling, and it's eerie. He has a different woman on his arm every week, and Illya wonders if he asks them, or whether they're assigned to him too. Napoleon speaks to Illya of the dangers of nuclear proliferation, how fragile the peace is that UNCLE has spread over the world. “It's why we enforce international cooperation—with us. One little wobble, and everything would be gone. It's worth assassinating a few people, isn't it?”  
Illya wants to believe it's about cooperation until the day he finds Mr. Waverly dead in his chair, Napoleon holding a smoking gun. Two girls cart away Mr. Waverly's dead body, grim and yet bored as though they've expected this. Napoleon wipes away the blood and sits down behind the desk, still smiling. Illya can feel the world begin to wobble beneath his feet.  
  
 **3\. Everyone is Cats**  
The little yellow cat sat outside of Alexander's door for three days, meowing louder than you'd think a kitten would be able to meow. Alexander ignored him until his sleek brown tabby, Napoleon, started scratching at the screen door and meowing back.  
The next day, Alexander opened the screen door and put a bowl of wet food just inside the house. The yellow cat sniffed at the food, but wouldn't step inside. Then Napoleon wandered up and hissed at the cat, and the cat fled.  
“Be nice,” Alexander said to him. Napoleon hissed once more for good measure and nibbled at the food, then went to sleep on the sofa.  
Two days later, the yellow cat came back. Alexander put Napoleon in the bedroom, then put out the bowl of food. When the yellow cat started to eat the food, Alexander grabbed him around the stomach and brought him inside.  
Napoleon hissed, his fur standing on end, and went to the bedroom, where he proceeded to poop on Alexander's pillow in protest. Illya hid behind the sofa and whined.  
But after just a few weeks, Alexander found them snuggling on the sofa, Illya allowing Napoleon to wash his head.

 **4\. High School**  
Career Day is dull. Napoleon couldn't care less about the guy in the suit droning about a rewarding career in international diplomacy and law enforcement. He does care about when lunch is. Fifteen minutes. It's pizza day.  
He coughs to cover the sound of ripping notebook paper and scribbles a quick note to Illya. I brought $5, split a pepperoni? He crumples it into a ball, drops it on the floor, and kicks it to Illya's foot.  
Illya is supposed to step on the note with one foot and smooth it out with the other. But before he can, the guy in the suit swoops down, snatches it, and pockets it, never breaking the flow of his narrative. “...as well as intercepting communications between THRUSH cells. Now, the enforcement sector is more difficult. We're issued firearms, but they are filled with sleep darts.” The suit and tie guy pulls out a wicked-looking gun and aims it right at Napoleon. “The next step is neutralization of the threat.”  
Napoleon blinks twice, grabs the gun by the barrel and shoves it so it's pointing at the ceiling.  
“Guess we have a new recruit,” suit and tie guy says, smiling.

 **5\. Angels and Demons**  
“She'll sell out,” says the angel. He is blonde, like the human girl, and he scowls. “They are always giving in to the Evil Impulse. It's disappointing.”  
“She won't,” says the demon. He is dark-haired and has dimples. “I've failed on the big, awful things more times than I can count with humans. Temptation isn't easy, you know—most people just don't have it in them to be truly terrible, just a little wicked.”  
“You sound almost happy about that,” says the angel.  
“Oh,” says the demon, “I am.” He grins widely.  
“Whose side are you on, anyway?”  
“Technically, yours. It's my job to prove the worth of humans by testing them.”  
“No wonder we keep meeting,” the angel says. “It's my job to look for weak spots by testing them. How have you been 'testing' this one, by the way?”  
“Sensual licentiousness,” the demon says dreamily. “And you?”  
“She has the potential to commit treason,” the angel says, “and you're testing her by seducing her? That doesn't make any sense! What kind of a demon are you?”  
“Incubus.” The demon winks.  
The angel blushes.

 **6\. Matching Soulmate Markings**  
Comparing markings is a pasttime at UNCLE. Napoleon and Illya strut around with their sleeves rolled up, wrists pressed against each other as though to advertise how perfectly their glyphs match. Agents are sometimes paired up by theirs, sometimes separated; whenever there's someone new in the base, the secretaries and translators always hurry to compare the scars they bear from birth. All of the patterns are kept in the UNCLE database, one more item of data to factor.  
Lisa Rogers remembers the flurry of confusion when one agent's markings matched up with those of a top THRUSH agent. No oath of fealty or training can compare to a soulmate bond; the agent was scrubbed, memory wiped, before he even knew what was the problem.  
Once, she ran her own markings through the database. She'd resigned herself to being alone long ago, but she was lonely, bored...curious. She never really expected to find a match. The results shocked her to the core, and she shredded them as soon as possible.  
When Angelique comes around the office, Lisa makes sure to stay well away. She wears sleeves past her wrists. Thick bangles, long leather gloves. Anything to hide the incongruous matching marks.

 **7\. One Person is Evil**  
Napoleon struggled vaguely against his bonds. “You, ah, aren't going to shoot me or anything?”  
The blonde, blue-eyed scientist glanced disinterestedly at him before going back to his calculations. “No. You're fine there for a while.” He turned a dial, stared at a display scrolling numbers faster than Napoleon could calculate, and scribbled something down. “You were disrupting the experiment, and now you're not. Problem solved.”  
“And when your experiment is over and I am no longer a disruption, I'm sure you'll set me free.”  
The scientist glared at him, his blue eyes magnified to ice by his thick glasses. “No, then I will shoot you. Just not yet.” He turned back to the computer, tapping his pencil against his lush red lips.  
Napoleon sighed and gave another experimental struggle. “There isn't any chance that I could seduce you out of the shooting part?”  
“You can certainly try.” The scientist put down his clipboard and stood in front of Napoleon. “Go ahead. But if I find any of your suggestions insulting or demeaning, I will probably hit you on the head again. And this time you'll be unconscious for a little longer.”

**8\. Vampires and Werewolves**

  
Illya wrapped his shroud around him like a cape. “Not all of us could afford coffins,” he said.  
“I see.” Napoleon sat on the dirt-covered bed. He glanced through the window—the full moon wasn't up yet, but he knew it would peek over the horizon soon. “So why come to New York?”  
“The Soviet Union is not friendly to vampires; we are parasites. I was starving.” Napoleon edged away from him, and Illya groaned. “Stop that. I don't drink werewolf blood.”  
“You could tell?” Napoleon turned his hands over, inspected the palms—that was where the hair always began to sprout first.  
“I could smell it on you.” Illya bared his fangs. “And the smell is getting stronger. Full moon?”  
“Just about,” Napoleon growled. He slapped his hands over his mouth. “I've got to be locked up. There are silver handcuffs in my valise—”  
“Forget the handcuffs.” Illya spread his arms, and his shroud billowed out behind him like a cape. “We are monsters, and we have monsters to fight.” His voice rang in Napoleon's ears. “Follow me. I fly—you run.”  
Napoleon ran, sharp teeth gleaming in moonlight.

 **9\. Welcome to Night Vale**  
“And now, dear listeners, let's all give a terrified Night Vale welcome to the newest agents from a vague yet menacing government agency—”  
“Excuse me, please. We are from a very specific and only slightly menacing government agency, the UNCLE. We are currently sitting in an undisclosed location talking to you from one of our cigarette cases.”  
“Ooh, which undisclosed location? The one in the snack stand in the Night Vale Drive-In, or the one in the basement of the hardware store?”  
“...in the drive-in. My partner is eating all of the popcorn.”  
“Mmmhm. Well, they do have excellent popcorn there.”  
“At any rate, we are here to investigate the mysterious deaths in your town—it was meant to be a secret operation, and I don't know how you got your radio show onto this channel, but now that the secret is out we would appreciate cooperation...”  
“Mysterious deaths? Gosh, I don't think there have been any.”  
“Are you joking, Mr. Palmer? Only two weeks ago, there were several hundred reported deaths in this town—”  
“Oh, we know what those were from. That was Street Cleaning Day! No mystery there, see?”  
“Ah.”

 **10\. Another Person is Evil**  
“I never would have suspected you for a THRUSH operative,” said Illya.  
“And why is that?” asked the agent, his pistol still trained on Illya. He smiled a smile that was all the crueler for seeming kind. “Because I'm nice? Because I don't raise my voice or take advantage of young women?”  
“Because you seemed so compassionate,” Illya said. “You seemed to mean it when you said you didn't want to kill her.”  
“I didn't,” the man said. “And I am. THRUSH isn't just an organization for sociopaths, you know.”  
“And here I thought you intended to brutalize the world.”  
“Only rule it. Power is a burden to the average human, Mr. Kuryakin. They don't know what to do with it.” The man nodded at the window. “It's a mess out there, and it's all because nobody truly competent is in charge.”  
“And you think you're just the man to run it all?”  
“No,” said Agent Solo. “But I'm privileged to work for men who are. You know, I don't really want to kill you—are you sure you won't join us?”  
“Tempting offer,” said Illya. “But never.”

**11\. Coffee Shop**

  
“I worked at a Starbucks for three years,” Illya says, “I think I can probably pull a shot fine on my own.”  
“Yeah, but Uncle Al's Espresso Barn isn't a Starbucks,” Napoleon says. “I know you're used to over-roasted beans and everything tasting the same, but we're all about the craft here.” He takes a brief slurp of the steaming cup that holds Illya's latest concoction, and makes a face. “Here. You try it, tell me what's wrong.”  
Illya downs the shot without hesitation, then winces. “Too acidic for a Full City.”  
“Right. You just didn't grind it fine enough. Try it again.”  
Illya slams down the paper cup, his hand shaking. “Napoleon, this is my seventh shot! Let me take a break.”  
Napoleon shakes his head. “The final interview is really tough. If you don't make his latte right, Mr. Waverly is not going to hire you.” He takes the cup out of Illya's hand. “Also, you don't need to drink the whole shot. Just slurp it to taste it.”  
“But it's such a waste of good coffee.”  
“You are vibrating at the speed of light. Just slurp.”

 **12\. Yet Another Person is Evil**  
“It's over,” Napoleon said, barricading the door to Mr. Waverly's office behind him. “THRUSH has taken every room in the compound except for this one. They say that we can surrender or die.”  
“Then I suppose you'd better make that choice rather quickly,” Mr. Waverly said, aiming a pistol at Napoleon.  
Napoleon raised his hands. “You're not telling me that you've given in to them? Do you really think we've lost?”  
“I have been them, in fact.” Mr. Waverly smiled. “And I have, in fact, won.”  
Napoleon's mouth dropped open in shock. “You're a double,” he said. “Or brainwashed.”  
“Merely a lifelong sleeper agent. I infiltrated the organization ages ago, worked my way to the top, and all that...and now I'm going to destroy it.”  
“But you sent agents in against your own men!”  
“Against crackpots and deadweight, yes. You culled THRUSH very nicely, Mr. Solo. But you never touched anyone truly worthwhile—if you had, you would be dead.”  
“If we've been so effective,” said Napoleon slowly, “why not just keep at it?”  
“Because it's time to take over the world, and you would never cooperate.”

 **13\. Zombie Apocalypse**  
Napoleon crouched under Mr. Waverly's desk, UNCLE special at the ready. “So you're telling me, Ms. Rogers, that this whole epidemic of walking corpses wasn't a THRUSH scheme gone wrong?”  
“It came from our labs.” Lisa sat on top of the desk, one hand on a revolver, the other on a lipstick communicator. “An attempt at a resurrection serum. It hadn't been tested when Mr. Waverly died, unfortunately.”  
Napoleon sighed. “I never thought I'd have to worry about my boss trying to eat my brains.”  
“I always thought I would,” Lisa mused.  
They both glanced at Mr. Waverly's body, which had been subdued and was tied up in a chair.  
A strangled cry came from Napoleon's communicator. “I've been bitten, Napoleon. If you see me—shoot me in the head. Cyanide won't work. It's the only way.”  
Napoleon stared at the communicator. “That was Illya!”  
Lisa cocked her revolver. “He'll be shambling in here soon. Are you ready to do the honors?”  
“He's my partner!”  
“All the more reason it should be you to take him out.” Lisa kept her revolver ready, aimed. “Hit the brainstem. He'll never feel it.”

 **14\. Where Would You Like To Be Buried?**  
Napoleon squinted into the setting sun. “How about over there, near the cliff?” He indicated with his chin, as his hands were tied. “It's got quite a pretty view. You could plant a tree, and sit in the shade.”  
“That was a rhetorical question,” said the THRUSH goon in the cowboy hat. He slammed the sharp end of a shovel into the ground. “Start diggin'.”  
“I can hardly dig my own grave with my teeth,” Napoleon pointed out. He wriggled his fingers to illustrate which appendage he felt needed to be freed.  
The goon sighed and drew out his long, gleaming Bowie knife. With one quick slash, he cut the ropes holding Napoleon's wrists. “All right, mister. But no funny business.”  
Napoleon flexed his fingers. The goon tossed the shovel at him and unholstered his gun. Napoleon caught the shovel easily. “And I assume you'll be pointing that thing at me all while I'm working, right?”  
“That's right,” the goon sneered. “So you just remember who's in—”  
Napoleon swung the shovel and smacked the gun out of the goon's hand. “Don't make a man dig his own grave—that's just cruel.”

 **15\. Strangers Have the Best Candy**  
The woman hiccuped again, then covered her mouth. “Oh my god! I have a bomb inside me?”  
“Not a bomb, really,” Illya said. “It's a plastic explosive. There's no fuse, no timer...but if you apply too much sudden pressure, it will go off.”  
“So sit very, very still,” Napoleon told her.  
“Plastic explosive!” The woman's face went white. “But how?”  
“It may have been something you ate. Did you accept any food from anyone who wasn't you? Even from a grocer...”  
“No, I eat breakfast at my house. Oh!” The woman snapped her fingers. “I bought a Baby Ruth from some Boy Scouts who were raising money for a camping trip.”  
Napoleon frowned. “The troupe that was a few blocks south of here this morning?”  
“Why, yes. They were so sweet.” The woman scowled. “Little devils.”  
Napoleon swallowed. “Illya,” he said, “I will not be making any sudden movements for a while.”  
“Why did you accept candy from strangers, Napoleon? You know better!”  
“They were Boy Scouts, Illya! I used to be one.”  
“I bet they weren't even THRUSH,” Illya muttered. “Kids...”

 **16\. Someone Evil is Good**  
Napoleon and Illya stumbled into Mr. Waverly's office, covered in mud and blood. Illya held an envelope, and he brandished it as though it were a sword. “We managed to retrieve the codes out of THRUSH's database,” he said. “I copied them down. From there, we can transmit them to the missile site and—”  
Mr. Waverly waved away the envelope. “No need, gentlemen,” he said. “The entire situation has been taken care of.”  
She sat on the desk, blonde, legs crossed, one side of her face smiling. “We tried to contact you,” she said. “But you were out of range.”  
“Angelique,” Illya said slowly. “I see once again you've completed our mission for us. How helpful.”  
Shoulders white and bare, she shrugged. “You were taking so long. Again.”  
Napoleon grinned through the mud streaked on his face. “Ma petit bon ange—it is a pleasure to be outdone by you.”  
“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Illya grumbled. “How did you even do it so quickly? It took us hours to find the codes.”  
Angelique blinked. “What codes? I stole one of their disintegrator rays and pulverized their missile site.”

**17\. Film Noir**

  
I would say the blonde looked like trouble when he walked into my office, but he didn't look like half as much trouble as the brunette. It's never the shady trenchcoat types that are the real trouble—no, it's the clean-cut ones in suits. They mean official business.  
“Boys,” I said, “if you're here about my taxes, just put me in the thumbscrews now—I can't afford to buy myself a cup of coffee, let alone give the government its due.”  
They flashed their badges. Not an outfit I was familiar with. “Never mind your taxes,” said the blonde. “We're just like any other customer—we need you to find someone who is missing.”  
I raised an eyebrow. “The big bad feds are coming to a little old private eye to find someone?”  
“Well,” said the brunette, “that someone happens to be your ex-husband, the nuclear scientist.”  
“Screw him,” I said. “He can stay missing.”  
They offered me a fistful of cash and my tax problems straightened out—well, I've got a price, just like everyone else. Foiling my ex's plans to irradiate the world was just a fringe benefit. As was the cute brunette.

 **18\. Cyberpunk**  
“The ice is dirty,” Illya says.  
Napoleon knows Illya means it as slang for an information array, but his own scanner shows it as literal ice, pockets of sludge embedded in the glacier that is THRUSH's security codes around its databank. “What are those? Viruses?”  
“Yes. Worms, to be exact—they'll embed themselves in our code and infect anyone around us. They aren't trying to keep people out...just infect them. Steer clear.”  
Napoleon can see Illya's avatar zoom ahead of him, a point of light in the infinite blackness that is dataspace. He drifts along after Illya, aware that in meatspace, he's making ridiculous gestures in order to move himself. They may be almost the same age, but this is more foreign to Napoleon than to Illya; the Ukranian coder has been trained to be a hacker almost from birth. Napoleon knows how to use guns, outrun and outwit people in the real world. He can barely navigate in dataspace.  
“I've got the codes.” Illya's avatar has gone and come back, and Napoleon can see red dots in the distance, getting nearer. “But they detected my presence. Be ready.”  
Napoleon removes his visor, real gun drawn.

 **19\. Renaissance Faire  
**  
Napoleon tugged unhappily on his codpiece. Sweat was beginning to pool in uncomfortable places, and the creaking tin can he was currently inside of wasn't helping much.  
“Stop playing with yourself,” said Illya, “this is a family show.” He shoved the gauntlets onto Napoleon's hands.  
“Is that why you make all those 'playing with your balls' jokes in your juggling routine, Squire Illya?” Napoleon flexed his fingers. “How can you hold a sword in these?”  
“Practice. Come on, you don't have to do much—you're just jousting against the Vulgarian champion. The honor of the queen is at stake.”  
“Champion!” Napoleon groaned. “I'm going to get my head smashed.”  
“My intelligence suggests that the Vulgarians prefer pratfalls to glory. It amuses the children. Stay on your horse longer than he does, and you'll be fine.” Illya patted him reassuringly on the helmet.  
“Might as well.” Napoleon pulled down the visor of his helm. “You know, I've had a lot of women call me a knight in shining armor. I never thought I'd be one.”  
“And I never thought I'd have to wear velvet tights, but we do what we must.”

**20\. Your Nightmares Are Real**

  
Napoleon doesn't dream about Korea often, but when he does, the dreams are indistinguishable from one another. Jungle heat and wetness, his clothes sticking to his skin. He's covered in mud, greenery everywhere, and he can't see anything. The omnipresent threat of danger, but nothing he can avert or attack—the danger is not aimed at him, but at everyone, everything. His friends are dying or about to die, and soon it will be his turn.  
He's been in far more danger since his stint in Korea, but somehow the waking fear and danger he lives in never makes it to his dreams. Korea was his first taste of mortality, and it imprinted itself on his mind.  
There comes a day when he's back in Korea—a nuclear threat, a world pushed to the brink of war—and once ag ain he's crouching in a jungle, gun hard and hot in his hand, danger all around him. He's lost track of when he is, if he's asleep or not. It doesn't matter if there's a war. It doesn't matter if his friends are other American soldiers or a pain in the ass Russian. There is a setting he knows, and there is a gun.

 **21\. Someone is a Robot**  
The knife slashed through the skin of his wrist. Napoleon gripped it hard, expecting a gout of blood to come pouring out, expecting to feel the life ebbing from his arm directly from his heart. But nothing happened—a flap of skin came loose, and he felt no pain.  
Once the guard had been subdued, he sat by the nearest wall and studied his wrist. He poked the cut, probed it. There was no pain; there was barely any sensation. Had THRUSH dosed him with some kind of strange new drug, something that altered the nerves, the body, the blood?  
He pried up the flap of skin to see what was underneath, and saw wires.  
“Napoleon? Are you all right?” Illya rounded the corner, gun at the ready.  
Napoleon held up his wrist. “Illya...tell me if you see what I see, or if I'm hallucinating.”  
Illya crouched down to peer at his wrist. He clucked his tongue. “Oh, dear. Well, it looks like a few wires have been cut, but nothing serious. I can repair that easily.”  
“You mean these are supposed to be there?” Napoleon yelped.  
“Yes. But you're not supposed to know—and you'll forget.”

 **22\. Noble and Peasant**  
Angelique places the tiara on her head. “For me, diamonds? You shouldn't have.” Her eyes glitter like hard gems. “You really shouldn't have, Napoleon,” she croons. “Don't you know why THRUSH wanted these? It's not the value—it's the circuitry. It controls minds.”  
But it's Illya she tests it out on first. “Kneel,” she commands him, her smile curving like a knife. “Kneel before your queen.”  
Illya spits at her feet.  
“Filthy peasant,” she cries. “I'll teach you to show defiance.” She slaps him across the mouth, and he can feel coppery blood on his tongue.  
Napoleon falls to his knees hastily and nudges Illya. “She likes to play 'cruel princess,'” he whispers. “Play along. I know how this game ends.” He looks up at Angelique beseechingly. “How can I serve you, mistress?”  
Angelique purrs like a cat and caresses Napoleon's cheek. “Darling,” she says. “I know you're already mine. You'll be my pet when it happens—if you're a good boy for me.”  
Illya isn't sure what's worse—the possibility that the tiara does control minds, or that he's been dragged into one of Napoleon and Angelique's perverse sexual games.

 **23\. Office Romance**  
Napoleon could swear the new intern is flirting with him.  
The young man is certainly attractive. Blonde, which Napoleon has always had a taste for. Sparkling blue eyes. Cherry red lips. Exactly Napoleon's type. They've barely exchanged a word, but Napoleon could swear that whenever he looks up, the young man is staring at him. It's a clear invitation, and Napoleon has a reputation to keep up as the office lothario.  
They're waiting for the elevator together, one day—Napoleon on his way to lunch, the intern with a cart full of files. Before anyone else can ruin the moment, Napoleon yanks the cart into the elevator, the intern following before he can pull away. Napoleon jabs at the “Door shut” button, and they are alone.  
“Good,” says the intern in a thick accent Napoleon can't name. “I was wondering when you'd get around to that.”  
“Oh, I couldn't keep away.” Napoleon leans in close, lips pursed.  
The intern sighs in exasperation. “I see THRUSH has brainwashed you again. You're a secret agent with amnesia, and we need to escape from this office building. Follow me.”  
It all sounds oddly plausible. Napoleon is willing to follow.

**24\. Fairy Tale**

  
“I brought you the mortar and pestle of Baba Yaga herself, just as you asked.” Illya held out them out to the fairy princess. “Now can I have my friend back?”  
The fairy princess extended one long, white arm strung with glittering jewels, and the mortar and pestle floated from Illya's hand and into hers. “Now that the old witch is dead,” she gloated, “her power will be mine!”  
“Oh, she isn't dead.”  
“What?” the fairy princess roared, her gem-green eyes turning to fire.  
“I challenged her to a game of chess,” Illya said. “If she won, she got my golden hair—if I won, I got her mortar and pestle. And I am very good at chess.”  
The fairy princess hissed. “You brought me what I asked for, I suppose...so you'll get what you asked for. Napoleon!”  
A gorgeous Russian wolfhound walked into the hall and sat at Illya's feet.  
“I turned him into something a bit more useful. He does answer to his name.” Before Illya could protest, she snapped her fingers, and the ice palace disappeared around them.  
Illya sighed. “Maybe Baba Yaga will want a rematch.”

 **25\. Sudden Genderswap**  
“At least we know what the Tiresias Ray does.” Illya ties off the Ace bandages wrapped around his chest. “I hate these things. How do women ever manage to run with them?”  
“I suppose they get used to it.” Napoleon stares in the mirror. “I suppose we'll have to.”  
“Ugh.” Illya grabs his newly grown blonde locks with one hand and holds a razor to them. “Put some clothes on, why don't you? It's strange to look at you.”  
“It's strange for me, too.” Napoleon touches the skin of his thigh, his stomach. “It's so soft. And I don't want to put a suit on over this.”  
“Don't tell me you're starting to enjoy it.”  
“I don't know why you're not.” Napoleon lets his long black hair slip through his fingers. “What man in the world has ever gotten this chance before?”  
“You know we'll have to turn ourselves back before we destroy the ray. UNCLE will never believe that we're who we say we are.” Illya pulls his turtleneck on. “You plan to turn yourself back to male, don't you?”  
“Of course,” says Napoleon, unconvincingly.

 **26\. Someone Else is a Robot**  
Napoleon rubbed the back of his head, his vision wavering for a moment before going back to normal. “That was a hard one,” he murmured. He turned to his partner. “All right, Illya?”  
Illya was sitting straight up, back like a ramrod. He blinked slowly, mechanically, his blue eyes staring and unfocused. “I am unit I-L-L-Y-A, and I have suffered a malfunction,” he said with perfect precision. “Please return me to the factory for repair.”  
Napoleon stared at Illya, waved his hand in front of his friend's eyes. “Stop joking around,” he said.  
Illya turned to gaze at him. “I am unit I-L-L-Y-A,” he explained, “and I have suffered a malfunction. Please return me to the factory for repair.”  
“All right,” Napoleon said. He grimaced and held his hand out to Illya. “Stand up, and we'll get you back to the, uh, factory.”  
Illya stood up. It reminded Napoleon of the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz, the way his legs moved so stiffly, the way his body unfolded.  
“Just a little brain damage,” Napoleon told himself, “that's all.” But he found himself listening for an electronic hum.

 **27\. Magical Realism**  
“In the end,” Illya reports, “we did not have to prove that the Ambassador of San Veronica was corrupt; he turned into a lizard during the summit meeting as he was about to suggest war, and his THRUSH involvement was obvious to all present.”  
“I still don't understand,” Napoleon said.  
“What?”  
“Well...any of it.”  
“South American countries are lousy with magical realism,” Illya says. “They tend to be reified metaphors for ideas that can't be expressed directly.”  
“Mmm. I don't think I've ever seen any in America.”  
“You may have not,” Illya says, “but I certainly have.”  
“Oh, really? Where?”  
“Right here in New York. There are quite a lot of invisible people walking around.”  
“Well, I haven't noticed...” Napoleon trails off. “Of course. Because they're invisible.”  
“It is very literal, for a metaphor.”  
“Illya...have you ever seen me turn into a lizard?”  
“Magical realism works differently here, it wouldn't even—no. No, I have not.”  
“And have you seen many invisible people in UNCLE?”  
“Some girls, when they don't want to date you. Sometimes me.”  
“I'm lucky I'm not a lizard.”

**28\. Always-A-Genderswap  
**

“She's just so distant lately,” the guard said, “and she won't tell me what's wrong.”  
“Maybe it's because she knows you're keeping something from her,” Polly Solo said, wishing she hadn't tried to flirt with the guard in an attempt to escape. She never quite had the nerve to seduce the married ones. It always ended with her giving relationship advice, somehow. “Like that you're working for a murderous international cartel of megalomaniacs.”  
“Hmm. Yeah.” The guard frowned, lost in thought, and that was when Ilena Kuryakina hit him over the head.  
“I'm sure he was very nice,” Ilena said to Polly, “but I don't care.” She knelt down and began to pick the shackles that held Polly's legs apart. “Did he...?”  
“You ask every time,” Polly said. “They never take advantage.”  
Ilena pressed her lips together. “Sometimes they do.”  
Polly wiggled her legs free. “THRUSH employees aren't allowed to tell their families who they work for, apparently.”  
“Is that relevant?”  
“You never know when it could be.” Polly bent down to examine the unconscious guard. “He's still breathing. Let's go destroy that death ray.”

**29\. Superheroes**

  
“I don't understand, Illya,” Napoleon said. “We've been shot at, dumped into a lake, tied up, blown up, and you're still cool as a cucumber. No matter what anyone does to you, no matter what danger we're in, you're always terribly calm. How do you do it?”  
“Napoleon, I am about to show you something nobody has ever seen—because you are my partner, and you should know this.” Illya took a deep breath. “Call my grandmother something nasty.”  
“All right. Your grandmother was a lousy cook,” Napoleon said helpfully.  
Illya rolled his eyes, but his cheeks flushed, and then went green, and very large. Napoleon cowered until Illya shrank again. “It happens when I get too angry,” Illya explained. “Lab accident.”  
“How useful.”  
“Yes, isn't it?” Illya stopped being green. “Your turn. You're always so charming and composed—how do you blow off steam?”  
Napoleon merely shook his head and smiled, but later, he showed Illya the mask and cape. “I go out at night and fight crime.”  
“...we already fight crime, Napoleon.”  
“Yes,” Napoleon said, “but we don't get to dress like bats while we're doing it.”

 **30\. Getting Stoned**  
Illya threw his communicator in the bathtub. It still rang. He turned on the faucet and watched as the water slowly began to cover it. The ring echoed underwater for a moment, and then it stopped ringing.  
“Mr. Waverly is going to think I'm drowned,” he said to Napoleon.  
Napoleon squinted at the bathtub. “Why did you throw your communicator in the bathtub?”  
“Because if I answered it now they'd know I'm stoned,” answered Illya.  
Napoleon sat on the edge of the bathtub. “Do you ever think,” he said, and stopped. “Do you ever think...we don't really live real lives?”  
“We aren't real?” Illya panicked.  
“Well, when you go grocery shopping, for example. Do you think, well, I'm a real person grocery shopping, or are you just pretending? Like, this is what you have to do to act like a real person and you don't mean it?”  
“No. I mostly get takeout.”  
“But are you a real person getting takeout, or—”  
“Do you think the delivery people are spies?”  
The doorbell rang. “That'll be the pizza,” Napoleon said.  
“I'll lay down suppressive fire if you cover the tip.”

 **31\. Dungeons and Dragons**  
“You are in the elf princess's bedchambers—the very room where the orc king was found mysteriously dead with no wounds or marks. What do you do, Napoleon?” Alex peers at Napoleon from behind his DM screen.  
“I seduce her.” Napoleon rattles his d20 in his hand. “And I get a plus three to charisma, so I should make this roll.”  
Illya rolls his eyes. “That's your solution to everything.”  
“Hey, I built a social character, you built a battle mage...” Napoleon tosses his die onto the table. “Nat 20.”  
“The seduction is successful,” Alex says. “She's putty in your hands.”  
“I mention the sad fate of the orc king.”  
Alex says, in a falsetto, “Ah, yes, he could not satisfy me, so his fate was sealed!”  
Napoleon throws his hands up in triumph. “She confessed! Mission complete!”  
“Not yet,” Illya says. “We still have to bring her to justice.”  
Napoleon yawns dramatically. “I'm still sleepy from the seduction. I feel like that's your job.”  
“Fine. Area cast acid splash—the entire room.”  
“But I'm still in there!”  
“Shouldn't have gone to sleep after sex.”

 **32\. Canadian Shack**  
“I thought you were Canadian,” Illya says, a fleece blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. “Can't all of you figure out how to survive in the cold?”  
“I won't dignify that with a response.” Napoleon squats before a cold fireplace, striking match after match, only to have them sputter out as soon as they hit the wood. “Calling me a Canadian. That's vile slander.”  
He pushes the box of matches towards Illya. “Three left. What about you—you never learned to build a fire in those dreary Siberian winters?”  
“I'm from Kiev, you blockhead, we don't all live on the tundra.” Illya does not stir. “Anyway, it's not always a matter of changing the environment around you. We learned how to deal with the cold on its own terms.”  
“Well,” says Napoleon, “as the fire gambit is clearly not working, why don't you share some of those tricks with me?”  
Illya opens the blanket up. “Sharing body heat is the best one.”  
Napoleon glances at the dark, cold fireplace, and shrugs. “Suits me fine,” he says, and crawls under the voluminous blanket. Illya wraps it, and his arms, around Napoleon's body.

**33\. Space Opera**

  
“You can't commandeer this ship! I'm an independent salvage unit!” The woman aims her blaster at both of them.  
“We're from the Federation.” Napoleon shows her his badge, one hand up, blaster holstered. His android partner Illya follows suit, but keeps his blaster at the ready. “We received a distress call from the space station, but it's half destroyed—we need your vessel and your capabilities to rescue what's inside it.”  
“It's too late. Everyone's dead there.” The woman fires her blaster three times, each shot missing the agents.  
Illya aims his own blaster at her, but Napoleon grabs his arm. “Hold it, Illya. I know she wasn't shooting at us.”  
The agents turn around to see three gigantic xenomorphs slumped on the floor, heat-holes blasted into their bodies. Their blood sizzles on the floor.  
“I didn't want anyone else to get aboard this ship. I know THRUSH Corp wants these things—I'll be damned if I let anyone get hold of them. They're too dangerous to live,” says the woman. “I was going to crash the ship into a moon. Get it over with.”  
“No suicide missions today,” Napoleon says grimly. “We're here.”

 **34\. Sex Pollen**  
Alarms went off, sirens flashed. “Close the vents! There's been a breach!” A pink cloud of dust whoofed out of a vent in the ceiling, and the particulate matter settled on Napoleon, on Illya, and on the THRUSH guard that they happened to be standing behind.  
Illya sneezed, and the guard turned around. Napoleon went for his UNCLE special, but the guard knocked it out of his hand and pushed him against the wall, pressing his lips to Napoleon's in a passionate kiss.  
“You work quickly,” Illya observed, his hand raised in an arrested karate chop. The hand that was about to crack the guard's skull instead slid up the man's neck, and Illya's lips fastened to the soft skin of Napoleon's throat as his fingers caressed the guard's hair.  
“We've got to get a sample of whatever's causing this,” Napoleon murmured to Illya.  
“Like you need it,” Illya moaned into Napoleon's neck.  
The guard pulled back. “I can't believe I'm making out with an UNCLE agent.”  
“Two,” Illya said, and unzipped the man's fly.  
Napoleon took the opportunity to twine both arms around two waists. “Best affair I've ever been sent on.”

 **35\. Alien Invasion**  
It's the third day that UNCLE personnel has been stationed to watch the flying saucer that touched down in Washington, D.C., and while Napoleon is still fascinated by the spacecraft, Illya is getting bored. “Why can't the damn thing open up already?”  
Napoleon gestures at his UNCLE special. “If I looked out the window of my vehicle and saw a bunch of men with guns, I'd be hesitant to open the door, too.”  
“So drop your gun and go welcome the man from Mars. You are more the diplomat than me, are you not?” Illya glares at Napoleon, and then throws his own gun to the ground. “This is stupid, and somebody has to do something.”  
He raises his hands and walks towards the spaceship. After a moment, Napoleon follows suit. He plucks a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and waves it, the white flag of peace.  
As they approach, the spaceship begins to hum, and a door slides silently open. They are moving towards a square of light, a spindly figure silhouetted within it.  
Napoleon grits his teeth and prays that, whatever the aliens are, they know about white flags and not ray guns.

 **36\. Desert Island**  
Illya dropped the communicator into the sand, hanging his head in defeat. “No luck. We've landed on the one island in the Pacific where even UNCLE's satellite signals don't reach.”  
“Too bad.” Napoleon had climbed up onto a large pile of rocks to survey the area. He reached the top and leaned against the rocks, arms crossed, eyes fixed on some distant point in the ocean.  
“Yes, it is too bad that we're going to die here.” Illya picked up the communicator and shook the sand out of it. “Nobody knows where we were going, nobody knows where we are, and nobody is coming to pick us up.”  
“Oh, someone will be along eventually.” Napoleon sat down. “Kind of nice, actually. No missions, no danger, nobody shooting at you, nobody hounding you to do paperwork. Just us and the ocean.”  
“And dehydration. And sunstroke. And starvation.”  
“There's a jungle right behind us. Food, shade, fresh water.”  
“There are probably poisonous snakes.”  
“I might even retire here.”  
“Good luck during monsoon season. And enjoy trying to find a poisonous snake to date—wait, you already do.” Illya kicked at the sand.

 **37\. Mundane**  
Napoleon leaned on the picket fence. “Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if things were...different?”  
“Like if I were back in Russia?” His mathematician neighbor blinked. “I'd be waiting in line for potatoes, instead of being able to buy three brands of instant potato flakes from the supermarket. I'm fine with this.”  
“It's just...” Napoleon waved at his split-level, his carefully trimmed lawn, the Buick in his driveway. “When I came back from Korea, all I wanted was stability—a wife, a house, a good job. Kids. And Clara is great, don't get me wrong. But I look at my life now, and I wonder...is it always going to be like this?”  
“I hope so.” Illya sniffed the air. “Anya is barbecuing steaks. We have some extra.” His eyes sparkled. “Extra steak. You hungry?”  
“I mean, I've been living in the same place for ten years. I've been selling insurance for ten years. I just feel like I've never made a real difference in the world.” Napoleon sighed.  
“Your friendship makes a difference to me,” Illya said. “And we should discuss this over steak and martinis.”

 **38\. M-Preg  
**  
Napoleon stared at the X-ray. “I can't possibly be.”  
The cheerful young nurse grinned. “Oh, yes! See...there's the fetus, right between your kidneys.”  
“An ectopic pregnancy,” Illya said. “Rather dangerous.”  
“I think you mean impossible,” Napoleon corrected him.  
“Not with the experiments THRUSH did on you,” Illya said. “We didn't tell you much about them—there was no need to worry you—but now there is need to worry.”  
“Really,” Napoleon said slowly. “So...am I pregnant with some kind of THRUSH mutant?”  
“Oh, no. It seems to be a perfectly healthy fetus,” the nurse said. “Not a mutant at all.”  
“So we just have to figure out which of your recent lady friends might be the father,” Illya said.  
“I don't think that's how it works,” Napoleon said, slowly.  
“Well, we don't know that,” Illya said. “I mean, frankly...you're pregnant. It could have happened in a number of ways.”  
“Of course, you'll have to be off-duty for at least nine months,” the nurse said.  
“See,” Illya said, “this is why you always use a condom. Shall I start going through your little black book?”

 **39\. Furries**  
“She's nice,” Heather McNabb said, “if you like the feral type.” They both stared at the picture projected on the screen—Gervaise Ravel, a bobcat lady with sharp teeth. Heather licked her paw and smoothed down the fur behind her ears.  
“I've never had a problem with felines,” Napoleon said, “feral or, ah...tame.” He grinned at Heather.  
“Stop panting, it's undignified.”  
“Sorry.” Napoleon shut his mouth, but he squirmed. He knew he had to concentrate on the mission brief before him, but it was hard for a Labrador Retriever to stay put when there was something to retrieve.  
A stirring came from his shirt pocket, and Illya climbed out. His pink, bare tail twitched as he clawed his way up Napoleon's shoulder. “Am I to be brought on this mission, or do you think I'll be needed to run tests for Research and Development—again?”  
“I promise,” Napoleon said, “you're not just a labrat.” He picked Illya up and looked him in the eyes. “You're my partner, and you can get into places I never could.”  
Heather licked her lips, purring, “Hello, Illya.”  
Illya squeaked and dove back into Napoleon's pocket.

 **40\. Body Swap**  
“Oh, Illya,” cooed the typist. The blonde man put his arms around her, pressing her gently against the wall. As his red lips met her neck, she threw back her head and moaned, “I've always liked you so much, but you've always been so cold! What changed?”  
“I just needed your love to warm me up,” murmured the blonde.  
From the doorway came graphic gagging sounds. “Will you stop that? It's bad enough that I have to deal with your stomach and your greasy hair, but don't torture me by making me watch myself do that.”  
“What?” The typist pushed the blonde man away.  
The blonde straightened up and glared at the brunette. “This poor girl has been pining away for you for ages—if you weren't going to soothe her ache, I figured I would.”  
“Snake!” The typist slapped the blonde man and marched out of the room.  
“Really, Napoleon,” said the brunette, “it's disgusting. And we should probably report this situation to Waverly before she does—it's probably a potential security breach.”  
“Why? It's not like you know any secrets I don't know.”  
“Only as far as you know.”

**41\. Rent Boy**

  
Napoleon seldom passed by the corner of 53rd and 3rd without at least a speculative glance, and that was all. But one blonde, blue-eyed boy in an A-line shirt made him look again, and come closer.  
“Gee, kid,” he said loudly, “you look cold in that getup. Your mother didn't send a jacket with you to work?”  
The boy batted his eyes. “Well,” he said, sauntering closer to Napoleon, “maybe you could warm me up a little.”  
Napoleon offered him a crooked smile, and led him around the side of the building. The boy licked his lips, and Napoleon opened his mouth.  
“Moonlighting? UNCLE doesn't quite cover the costs of living?” He stepped closer, one hand slipping along Illya's collarbone. “Or is it just for the thrill?”  
Illya rolled his eyes. “Honeytrap. I'm one THRUSH official's perfect type, and he's quite talkative with a mouth around his cock.”  
“Ah.” Napoleon removed his hand.  
“You look disappointed.”  
“Of course not. I would never patronize you—much too skinny for me.”  
“Please. You know you could never afford me.” Illya put his mouth to Napoleon's ear and whispered, “For you...no charge.”

 **42\. In a Band**  
“I don't know what you're thinking, but I can't play this,” Napoleon said. He lifted his guitar strap over his head, set the instrument down, and stared at the sheet music Illya had printed out. “What's 22/7 time? How do you even do that?'  
“It's an approximation of pi. Darkmatter Birdsong did it on their last album.” Illya flipped a few switches on his synthesizer, and his fingers flew over the keys. Napoleon winced at the sound that came out of the speakers. “Doesn't that sound cool?”  
“It sounds completely impossible to dance to. Dude, I just wanted to play a few Beatles songs and impress chicks, I have no idea what you're doing with this math rock stuff.”  
“Goddammit, Napoleon.” Illya slammed his fingers down on the keyboard, and the garage briefly shook with cacophony. “You're a really good guitarist. You're way beyond playing “All you Need is Love” over and over again. Why don't you challenge yourself?”  
“Hey, the Beatles are a good band. It's hard to get their stuff right.” Napoleon picked up his guitar. “Look, we can compromise. How about “Love me Do” in 22/7?”

 **43\. Pirates**  
Captain Blackbird drew his cutlass. “The first mate found these in your gear,” he growled, and thrust the tokens under Napoleon and Illya's nose. “The Queen's Shilling!”  
Illya knocked the back of his head against Napoleon's and gritted his teeth. If he could only get free...but they were tied together too tightly to wriggle out of the ropes. “It's not what you think.”  
“Well, I think you're spies and mutineers, and that deserves death!”  
“We ran away from the Queen's Navy to join you,” Napoleon blurted out. “We kept those in case we ever needed to go ashore—if we flash them at anyone important, we can go about our business unbothered. What man among you can say the same?”  
The captain squinted in disbelief, but he holstered his cutlass. “All right,” he said. “You'll stay alive for now—but you're demoted to cabin boys until you prove yourselves.”  
Illya sighed in relief. He could stand being a cabin boy until they got to the fabled Skull Island, haven of pirates. And when they'd gathered information on every pirate ship that sailed the seven seas, he'd never have to go near the water again.

**44\. Cowboys**

  
“You know,” Illya said, “you don't have to show up at dawn. Let's sneak away from here under cover of night into the desert.”  
Napoleon took a swig of whiskey and made a face. “I have to,” he said. “The sheriff is part of THRUSH. If I just let him control the town...”  
“Then go kill him in his sleep,” Illya said.  
“You're thinking like a desperado,” Napoleon said. “I'm just going to get him in the arm. The whole town is going to be there—if I hit first, I'm the new sheriff. Nobody need die.”  
“You're delusional. Do you think THRUSH will let the townspeople make that decision?”  
There was a knock on the door, and the blonde dancing girl who'd been sitting on Napoleon's lap earlier entered. “Hi, boys,” she said, and grinned wickedly.  
Illya waved her away. “There's no money or whiskey for you here.”  
“Oh, I'm not here for that.” She drew a pearl-handled Derringer from her garter. “Sheriff Joe sent me, y'see. He's so impatient—didn't want to wait 'til dawn to kill you.”  
Napoleon raised his hands, but Illya reached for his gun.

 **45\. The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables**  
Illya spooned the last drop of soup into his mouth. “That was wonderful,” he said. “I've never eaten a vegetarian meal that was so delicious.”  
“At Alice's Restaurant, we aim to please!” said the hippie waitress brightly. She held her pencil over her order pad. “Let's see, now...that was the lentil stew, the tomato-tofu souffle, the raw borscht, and the wheatgrass smoothie.” She planted her hands on her waist. “Oh, yeah, and the poison.”  
Illya's eyes shot wide open. “The what?”  
“Those four dishes have chemical compounds in them that, when combined, create a slow-acting poison. Groovy, huh? And it looks like you cleaned your plate, too.”  
“Why would you do that?” yelped Illya, wiping away a bit of the foam that was beginning to bubble from the corner of his mouth.  
She patted him on the shoulder. “THRUSH is branching out into vegan restaurants. Sorry you didn't know, but lucky for us!”  
Illya keeled over onto the table, gurgling. The hippie waitress pumped her fist. “Fight the man!” she said. He would never know that the antidote could be found in the wares of a hot dog vendor nearby.

 **46\. A/B/O**  
Illya pressed against Napoleon's chest, clutching his gun. “Napoleon...this is not good.”  
“Hmm?” Napoleon frowned at Illya. “What's wrong?”  
Illya wriggled his ass against Napoleon's groin. “I'm going into heat.”  
“In the middle of a raid on a THRUSH satrap?”  
“It's not like it was my idea!”  
“I thought you were on suppressors?”  
“Apparently they've stopped working for some reason. Napoleon...” Illya whined. “I can't do this. I'm going to be throwing myself at the first alpha we come across.”  
“Ahem.” Napoleon cleared his throat.  
Illya went completely still. “You're kidding me.”  
“It's better than throwing yourself at some random goon, isn't it?” Napoleon pressed a kiss to Illya's neck. “Come on. We'll make it quick—then we can finish getting the device and get out of here.”  
“Napoleon,” Illya said slowly, “what are we meant to retrieve? Remind me.”  
“A heat gun,” said Napoleon. Realization dawned. “You're kidding. I thought it was some kind of laser.”  
Illya pushed himself away from Napoleon. “Well, let's go destroy it.”  
“But I thought we were going to—”  
“I can wait if you can.”

 **47\. Ghost Story**  
Illya cupped his hands around the guttering candle, the floorboards creaking under his crossed legs as he rocked back and forth. “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary,” he chanted. He turned to Napoleon. “You see? No skinned woman has appeared to tear us limb from limb.”  
Napoleon stared at him, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the darkness of the old house. “I can't believe you just did that.”  
Illya shrugged. “I don't believe in ghosts and spirits. I never—”  
A cold breeze whipped through the room. Illya yelped and clutched Napoleon.  
“Don't believe in spirits, huh?” Napoleon murmured. He put an arm around Illya.  
“I do believe in sudden snowstorms, and houses with no heat.” Illya squeezed his eyes shut. “Come to think of it, I also believe in THRUSH faking a haunting in order to scare people away from a secret laboratory.”  
Napoleon frowned. “Not that I doubt you, but that was an awfully quick conclusion.”  
“There is this cartoon I have been watching with four teenagers and a dog who investigate haunted houses...never mind.” Illya shook off Napoleon and rose. “Let's go looking for secret passages.”

 **48\. Halloween**  
“Trick or treat!” Zombie Robin Hood and James Bond held out two large canvas bags and grinned.  
The THRUSH guard furrowed his brows. “Uh...fellas, we aren't doing trick-or-treating. Sorry.”  
Zombie Robin Hood pouted. “Oh, but we heard you had such marvelous treats.”  
“Well...I might have a couple of Snickers bars around here.” The guard began to dig in his pockets. James Bond immediately hit him on the back of the head, and down he went.  
“I guess it's tricks for you,” James Bond said to the guard. He looked at Zombie Robin Hood to see if he would laugh.  
Zombie Robin Hood shook his head. “You just aren't as witty as the real James Bond, Napoleon.”  
“Well, you're not as good a shot as Zombie Robin Hood.”  
“Try me.” Zombie Robin Hood dug into his quiver, and produced two eggs. “I did some research—your Halloween traditions involve egging buildings, don't they?”  
“Illya...really? Egging a THRUSH satrap?”  
“Well, no. They're smoke bombs. I brought a dozen.”  
James Bond grinned. “Happy Halloween to THRUSH, indeed.”  
Zombie Robin Hood began to search the guard's pockets. He held up a Snickers bar.

 **49\. Hipsters**  
“I can't believe you texted me in the middle of a concert,” Illya said. “I stood in line for five hours for those tickets.”  
“Suck it up. Blackbird is going to blow up the Statue of Liberty and blame it on gay pro-choice Muslims if we don't do something, and Vampire Weekend is vastly overrated anyway,” Marian said.  
“You still listen to Vampire Weekend?” Napoleon asked. He handed Illya a pair of wire cutters.  
“Dude, I saw your NOFX CDs in your car. I don't think you get to talk.” Illya shone a flashlight on the bomb. “Marian, which wire do I cut?”  
“Red, I think.”  
“You think???”  
“I am absolutely sodding sure.”  
Illya squeezed the wire cutters and squeezed his eyes shut. There was a soft click. Nothing blew up.  
“Don't relax yet,” Napoleon said. “There are like three other bombs around.”  
“This is bullshit,” Illya said. “Who even blows up the Statue of Liberty? Why not Wall Street or something?”  
“Dude,” said Napoleon, “don't give them ideas.”  
“Hey,” yelled Illya, “bad guys, you should blow up Wall Street.”  
Napoleon just sighed.

 **50\. Curtainfic**  
“I'm not moving in with you,” Napoleon said. “I don't care how often we sleep together, it's not happening.”  
“What—because you fear commitment? Because you still want to bring home women?”  
“Because your place is disgusting.” Napoleon kicked a drift of hamburger wrappers, which spilled over into a small pile of plastic cups. Cockroaches scattered from underneath the pile. “I know it's New York, but it's possible to avoid getting roaches, I promise.”  
“You hypocrite, it's not like you have time to clean, either.”  
“I have a cleaning lady.”  
“See, and this is why we can never move in together,” Illya said. “You're willing to exploit the labor of the underclass because you're lazy—I am not.”  
“No, it's because you're the kind of person who would make having an apartment full of empty takeout containers into a moral issue.”  
“I was joking,” Illya said. “Also, you know that's a security breach.”  
“Having a cleaning lady?”  
“THRUSH recruits all sorts of people.”  
“Yes...and that's why we have our apartments swept for bugs every three weeks.” Napoleon wrinkled his nose. “Except yours, apparently.”  
“I trust my cockroaches.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [AUs Nobody Asked For](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8030470) by [AnamaryArmygram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnamaryArmygram/pseuds/AnamaryArmygram)




End file.
